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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/24078859">modern art</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/mandadoration/pseuds/mandadoration'>mandadoration</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Kingsman (Movies)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Bathroom Sex, Canon-Typical Violence, Cunnilingus, F/M, Hair-pulling, Penis In Vagina Sex, Praise Kink, Smut, aka whiskey betrayal did not happen, idk how science works</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-05-08</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-05-08</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-02 21:00:26</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>4,776</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/24078859</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/mandadoration/pseuds/mandadoration</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>When a new art museum opens up in your city offering free admission, you decide that you might as well try and cure your boredom there. Who doesn’t love free things. Turns out, the same museum was Ground Zero for some copycat of Valentine’s frequency technology, but it’s not plagiarism if you change it up a little, right? </p>
<p>This art critic is kinda cute though, even if his fashion was a little questionable. Maybe it’ll be worth it, coming here.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Jack | Whiskey/Reader</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>6</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>168</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>modern art</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>You didn’t really understand the appeal of modern art. Sure, you could argue that it looked nice given the right conditions, a certain angle, and definitely if made by someone who actually <em>had </em>an eye for these things, but the single splatter of red paint across an ugly, muted green made you seriously question rich people’s taste. Maybe you had to be rich to understand? And you weren’t saying that a monkey could do it, but it definitely… looked like… a monkey did it. Even the music seemed absent of any coherent rhythm, and– was that a cowbell? </p>
<p>But in the end, it <em>was </em>free admission and you had little hors d'oeuvres in the main lobby before the museum had fully opened, so you tried really hard not to let the displeasure really show on your face. </p>
<p>Not well enough apparently. </p>
<p>“This is quite possibly the most low-effort gallery I have ever seen.” </p>
<p>You look over to the left, and you have to fight not to give him the same look you gave these shitty pieces of art because while you were expecting some nice, Southern man, he dressed like what people <em>thought </em>art snobs dressed like. Wire-frame glasses you doubt had an actual prescription, a black, ribbed turtleneck under a creamy suit jacket, pressed navy slacks, and a fucking beret. And maybe it’s because you’re starting to feel like even though you didn’t waste any money, you wasted your time, and this man was the cherry on that shitty sundae, but you felt your soul shrivel a little. </p>
<p>At least the cowboys boots fit in with the accent he was sporting. </p>
<p>Luckily, he’s still scrutinizing the art on the wall, so you manage to only direct a raised eyebrow at him before you turn back to look at the eyesore. Out of the corner of your eye, you see him tilt his head a little in your direction. From that brief glance, you have to admit, he’s pretty cute. A strong profile with a charming little smile plastered permanently on his face, kind eyes behind the glasses, and the mustache suits him well. A man who’s kind because of circumstance. </p>
<p>You still can’t get over the boots, though. And were those honest-to-god <em>spurs</em>?</p>
<p>“Most modern art seems low-effort,” you snort in response. You read the plaque next to it. <em>Red streak on a green field. </em></p>
<p>What bullshit. You’re sure there are teenage boy’s rooms out there that have more complexity than this. “Guess you have to be <em>in </em>to get it,” you comment. “Whatever that club is, I think I’m okay with not being in it.”</p>
<p>You finally fully turn to look at him, and he follows suit, shifting so that his body is open to yours. “What’s with the, uh, the outfit?” you ask him. God, was that rude? You just genuinely wanted to know what possessed a man to wear that outfit and top it off with spurred yeehaw boots. You didn’t think anyone did that unironically in this city. He just gives you an amused smile and holds out his hand. </p>
<p>“I’m Herbert Gary Flynn,” he says, and you try not to crinkle your nose at his name. He certainly didn’t look like the monstrosity of the name he had. He looked more like a simple man. “The company that hired me was interested in investing in the local art culture, and sent me to scope it out.” Then, he glances around, scanning the room and skimming over the small crowd of visitors. His lip curls in a way that’s almost <em>endearing</em>. “It don’t seem that promising right now.”</p>
<p>There’s something about the way he introduced himself that it sounds much too rehearsed, too practiced in his introduction and the forced casualness that you narrow your eyes at him for a brief moment, but then he immediately follows it with a cheesy, but terribly disarming, “But you seem like the best art piece here. What’s <em>your </em>name, sugar?” You look at him, down to his outstretched hand, to his boots, and then back to his face. </p>
<p>You can… overlook the questionable choice of clothing and the even more dubious name for a face like his. You take his hand, noting that it is… awfully calloused <em>(and warm)</em> for an art whatever-he-is, and give him your name, relaxing your face so that you don’t look quite as suspicious as you’re sure you did before. He still gives you a curious look, but smiles warmly at you, and takes his hand back. </p>
<p>Something sits uneasy with you, not in a way that you think you’re in danger or that he’ll hurt you. More so like… not all the pieces are there. Like you’re looking at something with fragmented glasses on, so that everything is disjointed and you can’t really <em>look </em>properly. </p>
<p>“Beautiful name for a beautiful lady,” Herbert says. You roll your eyes. </p>
<p>“I’m sure you tell that to all the ladies you meet,” you respond, turning to walk to the next art piece, internally laughing when he immediately goes to follow you like some puppy-dog. There’s that feeling of endearment again. Only if he wore something else…</p>
<p>“Only when it’s true,” he responds. “And it’s never been more true than with you.” You can’t help it when your ears burn with each praise and compliment he shoots your way, but you try your best to appear nonchalant. “What brings you to this here showcase?” he asks, and you try not to think on whether or not that brush against your hand was deliberate or a complete accident.</p>
<p>Shrugging, you answer, “I was bored.” As simple as that. Herbert gives you a pitying look. </p>
<p>“I’m sure this isn’t a good cure for your boredom, then, I take it?” You snort. </p>
<p>“Nope.” You pause at the next canvas, sighing when you realize it’s basically just a blank canvas that looks like it’s been slashed through with a knife. “But you seem to be infinitely more entertaining than anything here,” you say to him, surveying his reaction for your little probing compliment. “Almost makes coming here worth it.” He just smiles at you again, the corners of his eyes crinkling.</p>
<p>“I am really not that interesting,” he deflects, but you tilt your head at him and give him your best unconvinced look, trying to look like you know more than he puts on. </p>
<p>And he actually looks… nervous. </p>
<p>Then again, not exactly nervous, but definitely like he’s trying to keep up some sort of public face, his brows furrowing even if the smile stays on his face. “Your clothing choice begs to differ,” you finally say after a moment, turning on your heel to walk towards a sculpture of… a rock? You don’t need to look at him to know he’s following, the jingle of his spurs telling all. </p>
<p>“What’s wrong with what I’m wearing?” he asks, but his voice is still playful. “I’ll have you know that these are <em>designer </em>clothes, sweetheart.” </p>
<p>If you rolled your eyes any harder, they’d roll out of your head. “What do you think of my outfit, then?” you ask him. He pauses, giving you a once over that manages to make you feel warm. </p>
<p>“You look good, baby,” he says, a confused look on his face, “but what does that have to do with–”</p>
<p>“Half of this shit I got from Wal-mart,” you tell him, a smile playing on your lips as you hold your arms and twirl once, “so don’t try to pull the designer card on me again.” For a moment, you think you’ve insulted him, but instead he laughs, loud enough to turn some heads before he coughs into his fist to regain his composure. </p>
<p>“Point taken,” he says. “I will not argue.”</p>
<p>As you walk to the next pitiful canvas, another witty remark sitting on the tip of your tongue, you hear a high pitched ringing in your ear, and at first you try to shake it away, slowing down your pace to try and wave it off, when a sort of… empty feeling rises in you, like a balloon, all empty space and hollow and not-quite suffocating. It’s entirely uncomfortable, and you want to just try and press on, but then you stop walking, as if you didn’t think to. It grows to the point that it envelops the rest of your thoughts, and you aren’t quite sure if your thoughts are wholly yours anymore. </p>
<p>You just… stare. At nothing, really. </p>
<p>You can faintly hear your new companion call your name, but it feels like echoes in your ear, and you barely flinch when he snaps his fingers in your face. “You good, sweetheart?” he asks. You turn to look at him, actually, more like look <em>through </em>him, eyes unfocused. </p>
<p>“I can be if you want me to,” you say faintly, and you barely process the words. Your mouth is moving, your voice bouncing around the walls, but it’s like you don’t have any control anymore, nor do you have the <em>want </em>to. </p>
<p>“I– no, sweetheart– What?” </p>
<p>“I think,” you frown, and rack your mind for the rest of that thought, fighting against the uncomfortable force that’s making your mind blank, “I think I need help.” He looks around a little bit, then snaps his gaze to the speaker right above you when the PA crackles to life and emits an ear-piercing whine that breaks through your haze makes you wince, hands coming up to cover your ears. It rings through your ears and bounces around in your head, creating a pressure from behind your eyes worse than any headache you’ve suffered through your entire life. Any more and your ears might even pop. </p>
<p>“What the fuck?” you grit out, and start to lower your hands back when that empty feeling comes back, but warm hands clamp your own back over your ears and push you along, past the other people still stuck in their own heads, and into the cooler air of the bathroom. As soon as the door shuts behind you, he pulls out a glasses case from somewhere in the lining of his coat, snapping the case open, and shoves the glasses that sit inside on your face. You sputter, trying to swat his hands away, but your head clears and you’re left blinking at him. You have to shove them back onto your face, the frames meant for someone who was bigger than you. He looks at you expectantly. </p>
<p>Silence. </p>
<p>So his glasses weren’t prescription after all. Does that make you more or less angry?</p>
<p>Then, “Okay, you better explain what the<em> fuck is going–</em>” He slaps a hand over your mouth and shushes you, leaning in close enough for you to smell the sharpness of his fading cologne. You want to lick his hand. Just to annoy him. </p>
<p>“I think something is going on here,” he says, then pauses, as if he was surprised he said those words to you, brows furrowed as he blinks, as if that’ll make a revelation pop into his head. You pry his hand off of you and scowl. </p>
<p>“Yeah, you think? Is Herbert Gray Funn or whatever even your real name?” Now that you could focus on what was actually happening, thanks to these… <em>weird </em>glasses he forced on you, your annoyance at your time being wasted culminates to actual, genuine anger. Maybe it was because your emotions swung completely in the opposite direction to try and balance out the lack of feeling, but you were mad that you wasted your time, you were mad that those shitty pieces of art are gaining attention, and you’re mad that this stranger, no matter <em>how </em>handsome, was being really, really weird. He frowns at you, holding up a finger in your face.</p>
<p>“It was Herbert Gary Flynn, first of all, sweetheart, and no it’s not my– Why am I telling you this?”</p>
<p>“Because I asked you.”</p>
<p>“Yes, I <em>know </em>that, but–”</p>
<p>“But what?!” you cry out. You push him away from you, and it was your turn to point accusingly at him. “I think you at least owe me your name! I don’t know if you can tell, but I’m a little freaked out right now!” Your voice is nearing hysterical, shrill and high as it bounces around the minimalist bathroom. You hated the bathroom, too. </p>
<p>“My name is Jack–” Then he pauses, shakes his head, and takes a step back from you. “How do I know you’re not working for them?” he asks. You throw your hands up in the air, and try not to think that <em>yes, Jack was a better name for him, a simple name for a simple man–</em></p>
<p>“Working for <em>who</em>?! I told you! I came here because I was <em>bored</em>! And admission was <em>free</em>! I got some free <em>food</em>! Which,” you laugh, just the slightest bit unhinged, “in retrospect, wasn’t even that good! I swear they served us Cheez Whiz–” </p>
<p>You hear the PA crackle to life outside of the bathroom. “Hello, is this… is this on?” a high, nervous, and reedy voice asks. A litany of “yes”s and “uh-huh”s sound, voices dead and monotonous. “Right, so, um. If you’ll look on the nearest television screen, you’ll see this man. If you, uh, if you would, please, uh, please… well… kill him.” Presumably, that man is Jack because his face falls, then he sighs deeply before pulling a lasso from his belt. </p>
<p>“Oh my god, you <em>are </em>a yeehaw,” you blurt out. He raises an eyebrow. </p>
<p>“You stay here, okay, miss?” he says, pointing at you. “While I deal with… whatever is happening out there.” You frown. </p>
<p>“I can help,” you protest. “I got these, uh, weird glasses thingies, and I’ve taken a few self-defense classes.” Jack gives you an amused smile. </p>
<p>“This is way out of your league, sweetheart,” he says, and from anyone else you think that this would’ve been incredibly condescending, but he seems sincere, and shakes himself out before turning to leave. “Stay here, okay?” </p>
<p>As soon as the bathroom door swings shut, chaos erupts. You’re momentarily taken aback at the sudden crescendo of sound, and you feel incredibly awkward at just staying there, hiding in the bathroom, and even more so when someone crashes through the door, presumably unconscious. They slide a few more feet from the sheer force that they were thrown in here, their skin squeaking against the tiled floor before coming to a stop right in front of you. You stare, wide-eyed, and then relax when you see their chest rise and fall. So not dead. Good. You didn’t want to be an accomplice to a crime. Actually, maybe you wouldn’t. As long as you stayed in the bathroom, you would be fine. Don’t move. Stay there. You can say that you were forced to stay there. </p>
<p><em>Jack </em>told you to stay there. </p>
<p>The person on the floor moans a little in pain. </p>
<p>Ah fuck it. </p>
<p>As soon as you step out of the bathroom, you scream and duck as <em>Red streak on a green field</em> comes flying at you. Jack barks your name. “I thought I told you to stay inside!”</p>
<p>“It sounded like you needed help,” you snap back at him. You run to the nearest fire extinguisher, yank it out, and nearly go flying because you overestimated the weight of this thing. It was a lot lighter than you had anticipated. Regardless, you run over to where he was grappling with what seemed to be a suburban mother of two with a taser out, and smack her aside with the extinguisher. As soon as she stumbles back, Jack reaches out to snatch the taser out of her hand, and jabs it into the side of her neck, causing her to crumple. Panting, he straightens up, and smooths down his jacket. You noticed he’s lost his beret, letting loose dark curls that stick to where sweat had started to collect at his hairline. </p>
<p>“Thank you,” he huffs, “but it isn’t exactly <em>safe</em>–”</p>
<p>You watch as he disappears right in front of you, tackled to the side by some aging businessman. Jack rolls with the man, kicking him off as he whips out his lasso again to snag a small marble statue, crouching low and using it as a weight to knock everyone off their feet in the surrounding radius before releasing the statue and sending someone clean through the thin wall. A few people stand back up, barreling straight past you to go for Jack, who looks nothing short of exasperated. </p>
<p>In nearly every corner of the room, there’s a small t.v. hooked up, showing Jack’s face, but this time, he’s wearing a stetson. <em>Much more appropriate than a beret,</em> you think to yourself. You pick up a medium-sized canvas that has a pink dot in the middle, and hold it out, and just like you predicted, someone runs through it on their way to Jack, and keeps running with their head through the canvas. However, because they can’t see, they end up running into the nearest wall and knocking themselves out. </p>
<p>“I think I’m safe!” you call out to him, sticking out your leg, sending someone sprawling and right into a glass display case. “Yeah, they don’t seem so bothered by me.” </p>
<p>“Must be nice!” Jack responds, voice strained as he kicks someone away with enough force that they go flying back, taking down two more people with him. Oddly enough, there’s some sort of… wave that comes from the impact, like a pulse of sorts that you feel more than anything, like a particularly strong gust of wind that you’re sure would’ve made you stumble if you weren’t already at some distance. That was definitely not the AC. </p>
<p>“You’re not really an art critic, are you?” you ask him. Jack laughs, ducking an attempted grapple from the guy you recognize that was thrown through the door into the bathroom, skin red and irritated from skidding across the floor. You pick up a small cow statue made of soldered metal, raising it in front of you protectively in case someone tries to run past you again. </p>
<p>“The field is really competitive these days, sweetheart!” he responds. Suburban mom manages to get back up and snag the lasso, yanking it out of his grip, but Jack simply lets go and lets her fall back, reaching behind him to pull–</p>
<p>Is that a fucking <em>whip</em>?</p>
<p>It definitely is because soon the sound of sharp cracks! start sounding in the air, making you instinctively flinch. The whip winds around Suburban Mom, and with some superhuman strength, Jack yanks her to the side, the sunglasses hooked on her shirt flying off of her in the opposite direction. In fact, she goes far enough that she knocks against the speaker hooked up on the wall, making the sound tinny, but louder than before, layering over the shouts of the few remaining people. Maybe once it’s quiet, the music will sound better, but she makes a little groan of pain. You’d be impressed if she gets back up. </p>
<p>The mom doesn’t get back up. </p>
<p>And the music is still awful. </p>
<p>Jack reaches down to pick up the lasso, but not before clicking something on the whip, letting it buzz to life, making you let out a noise of surprise. He goes around the room, ruining the PA system until it lets out one last whine, and dies. </p>
<p>You push the glasses up to rest on top of your head, that last little tug in you, the little air left in that empty balloon leaving, and  you look at him, adrenaline buzzing through your veins as you drop the weird cow sculpture onto the floor. At first you feel bad when one of the horns breaks off, then you remember that these probably weren’t even real art pieces in the first place, considering the wack-ass shit that had just happened. You look over at Jack, who’s panting and recoiling his lasso, hair mussed up and previously snooty, put-together look disheveled and messy, grinning at you with a raised eyebrow, and you think, <em>Damn, he looks delicious. </em></p>
<p>As that thought crosses your mind, Jack’s face drops into a more hungry look, his eyes darkening as he drinks in the sight of you, hair disheveled, plaster on your clothes, and overall looking like a right mess. </p>
<p>Jack steps over the ruined art pieces, kicks the <em>Red streak on a green field</em> away with a jingle of his spurs, and stops in front of you, hands on his hips. He licks his lips, looking away before he turns his gaze up to look at you. “Now it may be inappropriate of me to ask, but do you wanna grab a drink with me someti–” And you’re on him before he can finish his sentence, leading him back into the bathroom. He slips once against a scrap of torn canvas, laughing against your mouth, moving away from the floor to ceiling front windows and away from the eyes of any poor passerbys that might have the misfortune to peer a little too closely through the windows. After Jack kicks the door open, he slams you against the bathroom door, locking it, and you take that time to push him backwards further in the bathroom. Jack’s hands are all over you, running over your curves and digging his fingers into the swell of your hip. </p>
<p>He hoists you up against the cool counter, only drawing back enough for you to push that cream suit jacket off of him, dragging your nails down his chest. “Are you sure you’re just a civilian, baby?” he asks you, nearly breathless between the kisses you give him. Jack tosses the jacket somewhere behind him, reaching back for your hips to pull your cunt flush with his front as he grins into the kiss. “You handled yourself mighty fine out there. A bit suspicious, don’t you think?” He grabs the hem of his turtleneck, and pulls it off of him. The wireframe glasses go with him, disappearing from his face when his head finally pops out of the shirt, but you think he looks much better without them anyways. You can see his bright eyes better.</p>
<p>“I’m not a liar like you are,” you say back to him, nibbling on his bottom lip as you undo his belt and pull his cock out. Jack moans, low and raspy as he thrusts into your hand. “And I told you that I could handle myself.” Even as you tease him, you’re basking in his praise, his words running warm and syrupy through your blood. </p>
<p>“I suppose you did,” Jack groans. “Remind me not to doubt you ever again.”</p>
<p>He undos your pants and starts tugging at them. Jack gives you an appreciative smile when your lift your ass up off the counter long enough for him to slide your bottoms off, and his smile turns predatory when he starts sinking down to his knees, pulling you forward even more to the point that you would’ve feared that you were going to fall off the counter if it weren’t for the fact that he hooked your legs over his shoulders. “Now,” he says, his hot breath fanning over your clothed cunt, “I do apologize for the less than satisfactory setting, sweetheart,” and sucks a dark mark into your inner thigh as he looks up at you through his lashes. “But it seems we were both too impatient.”</p>
<p>“I-It’s fine,” you stutter, and your breath hitches when he starts mouthing at you over your panties. “Just-just make it up to me later?” </p>
<p>“I would love nothing <em>more</em>.” Jack moves your panties to the side, and licks a broad stripe up your aching pussy. His mouth is searing hot against you, and your toes curl in your shoes when he wraps his lips around your clit. “<em>Fuck</em>, baby,” he growls. </p>
<p>“Jack,” you breathe. </p>
<p>“You say my name so sweet,” Jack mumbles against you. “How many times do you think I can get you to say it?”</p>
<p>“I’ll say it a million times if it means you keep doing what you’re doing,” you choke up. Your hand flies to his hair as he buries his face in your pussy, moaning like he’s never tasted anything sweeter. “<em>Fuck</em>–” Already he’s working you up closer and closer to that edge, his tongue just as wicked as you expected from the little demonstration earlier in the gallery. </p>
<p>You whine as he pulls away much too soon, but he darts up to kiss you, and you moan when you can taste yourself in his mouth. Jack’s lips are already swollen and red, the lower part of his face glistening with your slick, and you doubt yours is much better, but you reach up to grab his face and pull him against you the best you can. He’s intoxicating to you, wanting more and more of him, and it seems like he shares the same sentiment. </p>
<p>You’re really, really glad you wasted your time in this stupid museum. </p>
<p>Jack pulls away enough for him to press his forehead against yours, looking down between your bodies as he guides his cock into your pussy. He hisses as he sinks deeper and deeper into you, stretching you open in the best way, and the groan he gives, low and nearly purring in his chest, makes you clench around him. “God<em>damn</em>, sweetheart,” he moans. “I’m so fucking glad I came to this shitty art show,” he says, mirroring your unsaid sentiment. His thrusts are slow and deep at first, filling you so, so wonderfully each time he bottoms out, grinding against before pulling back only to repeat it over and over again until you’re breathless. You reach up a hand, threading your fingers through his hand, and pull until his neck is bared. When you lean forward, sinking your teeth into the soft spot under his jaw, his hips suddenly snap forward, forcing a surprised noise from you. “You like that?” Jack breathes, and his pace increases, making pleasure swell up in you until you think your fingers tingle. “Good girl,” he grits out, “making the sweetest fucking noises for me.” He pops his thumb into his mouth before bringing it down between your bodies, swiping the rough pad of his thumb over your clit, grinning when you moan loudly. The obscene sound of his hips slapping against yours echoes around in the otherwise empty bathroom. </p>
<p>“I’m gonna– I’m gonna cum,” you choke out, tears welling up in your eyes from just how close you were. </p>
<p>“Then do it,” he breathes, “ladies first, after all.” You stutter out a laugh, smacking his bicep in mock annoyance, but the effect is lost when he starts thrusting harder than before, and your nails dig into his arm as you choke around a moan. Jack rubs tight, little circles on your clit. “C’mon, baby, let go, let go for me. <em>Cum</em>.” </p>
<p>You choke out his name as you curl in on yourself, tightening your grip in his hair, that coil of pleasure deep in your belly snapping as you clench around him. Jack thrusts once, twice, and then pulls out, moaning your name in the sweetest way possibly, breaking through the haze of pleasure clogging up your senses, pumping his cock with his hand as he cums all over your pussy. Warmth splatters between your thighs, adding to the sensation of your rising temperature. When you blink a couple of times to focus, you notice how his eyes seem to be glued on the sight of your swollen, pink pussy with his cum dripping down onto the bathroom counter. After a few moments of drinking in the sight, he clears his throat. </p>
<p>“Anyways,” he says, “before you interrupted me back there– I was gonna ask if you wanted to get drinks with me sometime, but I guess we’re beyond that now, huh?” You roll your eyes, but smile at him with your flushed cheeks and bitten-red lips. </p>
<p>“I don’t know if you noticed, Jack,” you laugh, and try not to melt at how he perks up when you say his name, “but I’m not the most traditional girl.” You reach over to pull some paper towels out of the dispenser next to you, then wet it before you start cleaning up the mess between your thighs. You look back up at him through your lashes. “You like whiskey?” Jack quirks a smile as if you had told him the funniest joke in the world, even if it <em>was </em>a joke you weren’t privy to. </p>
<p>“Baby, I <em>love </em>whiskey.”</p>
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